


Listen at the Shore to the Song of Sirens

by lysanatt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 04, Wincest - Freeform, content: romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 23:39:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lysanatt/pseuds/lysanatt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who needs the song of sirens when temptation is right at hand? Who needs anything else when Dean's body and soul sing so much louder? There are truths so frightening and alluring that Sam doesn't know what to do with them. All he knows with a deep certainty is that the siren's poison is merely a petty excuse. For both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Listen at the Shore to the Song of Sirens

**Author's Note:**

> S4, E14-15: Set between _Sex and Violence_ and _Death Takes a Holiday_.

**Listen at the Shore to the Song of Sirens**

He lies there in the dark, the street lights casting shadows and light onto the tasteless wallpaper. A car hums by, its headlights swirling over the pattern in lime and purple. Dean's breathing is calm and deep, but Sam can hear that he isn't asleep. The slow intake of air and the soft puff as Dean exhales are right there, floating on the surface of sleep and dreams. Sam doesn't think there is any point in guessing why Dean hasn't fallen asleep hours ago; there are reasons enough to keep him awake for a millennium and then some.

He does know, however, why _he_ isn't asleep: tonight it is neither demons, nor the fact that he'd lost his brother to three decades of damnation in the depths of Hell that are keeping him from a few hours of blessed oblivion. Tonight it is something smaller, more insignificant, more... dangerous that disturbs him.

Sam stares into the ceiling, trying to make sense of the forms and features obscured by darkness. Tones of charcoal and dust change and intermingle with the wind and with the light from the naked bulb that swings lazily from a lamppost outside. A bit like his mind. It swings and dances and butterflies its way through a pursuit of logic; all the time avoiding his attempts to create a whole out of today's shattered fragments. His thoughts are gray in the same fashion as the ceiling: one part little indistinguishable from the next; a muddy mess of impressions and ideas that his otherwise so brilliant mind can't, won't comprehend. Conclusions are distant and slippery and slide through his mind like sand through fingers.

" _Once he hears to his heart's content, sails on, a wiser man,_ " Sam whispers into the silence of their room. Homer obviously knew shit about sirens. But Sam, like Odysseus, has heard to his heart's content and then some—especially _about_ his heart's content. He cannot just... sail on. He has heard too much, said too much. The hurt and the tears lurking at the corners of Dean's eyes were proof enough of that. For an instant he wonders when he became so cold as not to see Dean's wounds. For an instant he considers when he became this sword of ice and cold fire, cutting into his brother's heart. Oh, God, that he said those things... he didn't mean to. He loves Dean, loves him intensely.

But he did it nevertheless, slid this sword of words and hurt into his beloved brother's heart.

Nightly cars pass by, disappearing with the seconds ticking away into the midnight hour. Sam keeps the blame-fest going for a while; it works so well to guilt-trip himself into another direction when the content of his heart, the truth of it, is made up of equal parts of bitterness, fear and longing. Since Dean returned from Hell their relationship has been going there, too, to Hell. Perhaps that is why the hurtful accusations they hurled at each other worked so well. They weren't lies. They were the truth.

The truth of sirens.

It wasn't just the words. It wasn't just the fight. There were other truths. Disturbing truths. Hidden truths. Truths that wanted out. Slippery little bastards, increasingly more difficult to hold on to.

Sam turns in bed. The white sheets are soft and old and smell slightly of hospital and detergent. They rustle nevertheless and reveal him, treacherous as they are, to his brother.

It is Dean who takes the decision for them, starting the inevitable. "You awake?" Dean asks softly, raising up on one elbow. Sam can see the contours of him across the room, his head tilted and one foot sticking out from the comforter's warm cavern. "Sammy?"

"Dude, go to sleep." Sam isn't ready, he really isn't. He doesn't know if he will ever be. But stalling is clearly not an option; Sam can hear the reluctant insecurity in Dean's voice. Fuck. 

"Today," Dean starts, then stops himself choking on a deep breath.

Sam doesn't say anything.

"The siren," Dean continues, "you-"

Eloquent. Truly eloquent. Sam takes pity in his brother, shoving aside his fears. "I." Sam sighs. "Yeah, the thing got to me too. You saw what it-"

"I wonder," Dean interrupts, as if what he has to say is urgent. "I mean. Jess. Why? But he-"

Unfortunately Sam doesn't have any trouble extracting from the brief jumble of words exactly what Dean is trying to say. _Why hadn't it changed into someone like Jess for Sam? Why didn't it change into a hot stripper for Dean, a hot chick with legs to her armpits, carrying a tray, cheeseburgers and beer, making Dean's wettest dreams come true?_ Sam has been wondering too.

"What I'm saying," Dean says, pausing as if he is still in doubt whether he wants to say anything at all, "is that I've been thinking."

Another car passes by, sending a brief, golden light into the room. For a second Sam can see Dean's face clearly, all worried and anxious. Outside in the corridor someone staggers past. The sound of footsteps fades while the silence in their room spreads.

"He was a _he_. A _he_ , Sam."

"I noticed."

"All that crap about he should be my brother and stuff... I only have one brother and I don't do _he_ ,' Dean snaps. "What the fuck did it mean? The son of a bitch was more or less draped over me when it fucking sat in my car. In my _car_!"

Yes, of course things are worse when the Impala is involved. Dean probably thinks it has been desecrated by the unclean. Sam cannot stop himself from smiling, even though he knows already where this is going and that there will be no smiles later. "I don't know what it means more than you do," he says. "And you're not going to like my theory."

"Theories? I don't think so; there's no need for any theory, dude. We were poisoned, Bobby killed the bastard, the end. Do we need to be more theoretical than that?" Dean doesn't realize that he's contradicting himself.

"You're the one who asked, man." Sam sits up, pulling the comforter off. He turns, both feet on the threadbare carpet. "But I got a similar treatment if you remember. The same _male_ treatment."

The silence from the other side of the room probably means that Dean has noticed that particular fact. Or maybe he's thinking about how he wants to disinfect the damned car.

A minute passes by with Sam just sitting there. The air is slightly chilly. T-shirt and boxers really aren't warm enough. "I'm cold and I'm tired. Do you wanna talk about it or not?" Sam doesn't care that he's probably going to get Dean's usual _I'm not a chick_ song and dance. At least it delays the conversation; they can talk about this tomorrow or next week. Next year. Then again, with their mortality rate, it better be today. Tomorrow? Tomorrow, they deal with when they get there. If.

"No." Dean snorts.

"Fine."

"Fuck you and your stupid bitchface. I can see you."

"Oh, _please_." Sam sighs. "This is stupid. Say what you gotta say, Dean."

"So..." Dean's hesitating. "The siren promised us forever. And we fought over it."

"Seems we were both-" Sam, too, knows how to beat around the bush. "-in need of a brother?"

"I wasn't," Dean says with a deep certainty. "I mean... Despite everything. I have you. You're still..."

"Then why?" Sam knows that he has asked himself that question a hundred times since they left Bedford. He's attempted a reply a couple of times. The answer, however, is not one Dean will appreciate. Sam says so: "This is the part you are not gonna like."

"I didn't like any of it to begin with. Monsters working their mojo on me? Not fucking on."

"The siren poison... the hormone..." Sam takes a deep breath.

"The Oxymoron."

"Yeah, oxymoron yourself. _Oxytocin_."

"What about it?"

"It's a _love_ hormone, Dean."

"Er- yeah?"

Okay, so Dean hadn't thought that far. They do love each other, of course. Sam bites his lip as if he makes him able keep the words in for a bit longer. "It's connected to physical contact. To reproduction... and... romantic and sexual attra-"

"Oh no! No. We are _so_ not going there." Dean's voice is as cold as the night. Sam can hear a rustle in the dark before Dean suddenly turns on the light. He, too, sits up in bed, legs over the bedside. "You're insane. I didn't just hear you suggest that-"

"I suggest nothing." Sam looks down at his hands, unable to look Dean in the eye. "I'm telling you what I know." Sam wonders if he should stop it here. He might not get an opportunity like it ever again. One run-in with a siren is by far enough but no matter what they should probably get this out in the open. He decides to pursue the topic. "Let me ask you, how did you see the siren?" Finally he looks up, meeting Dean's half-way shocked eyes.

Dean frowns. "Tall. Very tall. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. Can't remember... maybe shaggy, like yours, I think. Large hands. Good looking, if... He looked like y-" Dean shuts his mouth. He looks scared.

Sam knows they're in deep shit. Maybe it had been better if they'd just forgotten the incident. But it _is_ too late. "Yeah. Someone like me. And you wanna know what I saw? Short hair. Like yours. Type... a bit butch. Full lips. Pretty mouth. Green eyes with the longest lashes. Freckles. Wrinkles, just around here, when he smiled." Sam reaches out and touches Dean's face, right at the corner of his eye were the skin is traced by almost invisible lines that later in life will become charming crows' feet. Lines that only show clearly when Dean smiles his gorgeous smile. " And-"

Dean's breath hitches at the touch. "And?"

"You. I saw _you_."

Dean shivers under his touch. "It didn't have freckles. Maybe we're still under the influence?"

"Yeah, sure. Oxytocin has a half-life of like three minutes, Dean. And less if it isn't injected. I googled it." Sam wants to explain that he's sure they saw the same guy, just noticed different things about him. Only the words doesn't come out for in that instant Dean leans into the touch, sighing as he rubs his cheek against Sam's fingers in a way that cannot truly be described as Platonic or brotherly.

"Dean..." Dean's skin and the slight stubble almost burn their touch into Sam's hand. Maybe Dean is right: they are still under the influence of something. Then again, Sam knows that he's grasping at straws now. He can just as well stop and get it all out. There can be no more misunderstandings. "Dean... Dean... please." Sam tries to stop himself, but his hand has all by itself decided that it is a very good idea to slide a bit so that Sam can brush his thumb over Dean's lush lips.

"Yeah," Dean breathes, his mouth temptingly open.

Sam decides to be direct. Dean will hate him for pointing out the obvious, but it needs to be said. That way they can get the fight over with. He feels as if he is standing on a shore, the waves raging, threatening to swallow him. He braves himself for the storm. "I didn't want for a brother. I needed- It made me feel-"

Dean looks up, his eyes intense. "I know what you felt." The corners of his mouth turn upwards in a smile. No fight this time, then. The sea is calm. "Enough with the girl-talk. Shared the experience, remember?"

Oh, Sam remembers very well. His body still hungers. It is as if Dean's allure is still there, his presence feeding hunger with more hunger. Generally speaking this siren-shit is an insight he could have been without. He has known for too long, though: he is lusting after his own brother, and the siren did little else than pointing that out, a bit less than subtly, obviously, what with the murder attempt and all. But Sam doesn't need any siren song. Dean's presence is enough. Sam tried. He tried so hard to suppress it, the desire, throwing himself at women to forget that Dean is everything he needs... perfect.

The fall comes in the shape of the a small movement of lips. Dean's mouth brushes over Sam's hand and maybe it is not on purpose that the tip of his tongue, too, slides hotly over Sam's index finger. Dean doesn't flinch. His intense eyes stare into Sam's, as if he enjoys that the connection between them has gotten this physical outlet, eye locked with eye, touch onto touch.

It is as if all their troubles, their dark future, their family ties do not matter. Only the connection between them, the magnetism, matters. Only this sea of desire and love they have whipped up matters.

"He promised me _forever_ ," Sam whispers hoarsely, unable to rein in the truth of his feelings. "And I wanted it. You." He pauses. "He promised me the only thing you haven't already given me. How could I ask that of you?" Sam looks away again, still with his hand on Dean's cheek. "There is something wrong with me. To be with you in that way, it- I-"

"Bullshit," Dean growls. "I'd do anything for you. I'd die for you. As I recall it, I already did."

The siren song sounds even louder now, with Dean so close, just there, his skin burning under Sam's hand, his breath damp against his wrist. Waves, he can hear waves, water and sea and drowning roaring invisibly inside his mind. "Dean-" is all Sam manages before Dean closes the gap made up by a few feet of threadbare carpet and years of guilt and shame.

"Shut up," Dean says and presses his lips to Sam's in a kiss which even in its brief lightness burns doubt and sensibility away. "And I'll give you forever, you fool, if that's what you want."

The sudden move makes Sam gasp: an opportunity that Dean isn't letting go because he kisses Sam again, harder this time. Dean's crass and sudden courting exempt, Sam finds that _forever_ with Dean in his bed seems like an insanely good idea because his brother's body feels hard and warm, fitting so well against his own. Sam tryingly lets his hands slide around Dean's waist, feeling his strength; muscles moving tensely underneath the shirt. With a longing moan Dean pushes Sam back into the pillows before he resumes the exploration of Sam's half-open mouth with lips and tongue.

Sam sucks on Dean's tongue hungrily, lets Dean fill his mouth with warmth and breath and need. Dean, too, turns greedy and their kisses grow more heated and wet as they manage to move into the bed properly. Dean's skin is smooth and Sam tugs at the t-shirt he's wearing, wanting more—everything he can have he wants. Dean stops kissing him for a moment and Sam needs the pause. Waves of arousal threaten to pull him under. He certainly needs a break. It gives him time to take in what they are doing, not that urgency isn't interesting, but he wants to enjoy it as much as he can.

It's different with Dean. Sam has only been with women before and their fragile frames, even the strong ones, seem like porcelain dolls compared to Dean's muscular body. Sam bites his lip, looking up at his big brother, one hand cupping Dean's ass, the other stroking his upper arm. Dean looks down at him, his eyes glazed over from lust. He stares at everything and nothing at the same time. His lips are wet and red, and Sam wants to pull Dean down on top of him once more.

He realizes that they are still dressed. "Clothes," Sam manages. "Off!" His entire body feels as if it is humming from desire. He wants Dean naked, to finally touch what he has coveted for years, suffering this painful yearning for his brother silently. Now there can be no more silence. Now there can be lust and moans and the sound of bodies moving together; silky whispers of skin against skin.

Straddling Sam, Dean manages to pull off his own t-shirt before he eagerly helps Sam getting rid of his. He stares at Sam's naked chest as if he sees it from the first time. There is a golden fire in his eyes that has nothing to do with demons and everything to do with want. Dean touches Sam's neck, letting a finger slide down his collarbone almost reverently. "You're so beautiful," Dean volunteers, uncharacteristically open and soft. "My beautiful brother."

Sam doesn't know what has happened. He doesn't know whether Dean has always felt like this or it is merely the siren's song that opened his eyes. To be honest, it doesn't bother Sam too much, because for a brief moment he thinks he has seen deep into Dean's mind and what he sees there is no lie. Dean wants him. He wants this as much as Sam does. There is no teasing, no blatantly seductive Dean, only this raw, open sensation of trust and love and most of all, need.

Dean's one hand clutches at Sam's hip almost painfully. With the other, Dean spreads his fingers, watching himself caress Sam's chest. Index finger over his right nipple, a slide to the left to let his little finger stop, brushing a peaking nub there. Sam is hard. His erection rubs against Dean's inner thigh, a reminder that they have no innocence left: the line that Sam never thought they'd step across lies below them like a broken demon trap, useless, ready to be erased by the waves of desire.

It is a flood. Sam's need overwhelms him and in a second he has throw Dean down in the bed, tearing at his boxers while Dean does the same. 'Sammy, oh... Fuck!" Dean moans loudly, thrusting his hips upwards as Sam finally manages pull down the waistband enough to have free access to Dean's cock. Sam hisses as the tip of it brushes over his stomach, leaving a trail of wet lust on his belly. 'Oh, yeah,' Sam groans as he clumsily presses their erections together, rubbing them in a way that feels both experienced and the opposite. On his knees between Dean's legs, with one hand supporting himself, Sam jerks them both off, rough and almost dry. He doesn't care. With his lips on Dean's neck, his rapid heartbeat thundering against Dean's tense, arching body they chase a pleasure and release long overdue.

Sam comes first. The warm spurts over their hands and cocks make is easier to move and the heat makes Dean moan almost obscenely loud, gasping for air as he is flushed into this hot river of sin and lust and love. Dean, too, comes, his arm tight around Sam's waist as he thrusts, pounding into Sam's wet fist with all he has. Sam watches as his brother's face contracts in orgasm and then goes slack. He sighs deeply, all tension disappearing with the release.

Hesitant to move, insecure, Sam waits. Dean opens his eyes, tired and vulnerably soft under heavy lids. 'Perfect,' he manages and pulls Sam down with him. His mouth curls into a small smile, making Sam understand that everything is all right, that _this_ is right. That _they_ are right. Not caring about the sticky sheets and their sweaty bodies, Sam settles with his head resting on Dean's shoulder. He sighs deeply, happily. 

There, in the dirty, damp motel room, the siren sings louder than ever. This time, Sam has no intention of fleeing, for the allure and the song is Dean's. Protector, brother, lover. It is perfect. Dean is perfect.

Not everything is solved by their acceptance of the love that has grown between them. Nevertheless, Dean's embrace feels so familiar, so like home that for the first time in a long while Sam feels at ease, relaxed. Perhaps this will give him strength to deal with what lies ahead. They both have a long way to travel. Not everything is going to be easy from now on.

But it's a start.


End file.
